


Manhandling

by Quallian42



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo - Jaskier Edition [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Carrying, Gen, Head Injury, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quallian42/pseuds/Quallian42
Summary: Fill for "Bad Things Happen (to Jaskier) Bingo"Jaskier muses on being manhandled by Witchers after suffering a head injury.
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo - Jaskier Edition [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1658455
Comments: 10
Kudos: 392





	Manhandling

Jaskier wasn’t small or delicate. In fact, for a bard, he was rather tall, with broad-ish shoulders and large, strong hands. The ladies of court practically swooned over his hands. Swooned. Jaskier wouldn’t be confused with a soldier or a blacksmith, but he was not some little wisp of a creature. 

Sure, some of the misconception about his size might be his fault. He had worked hard to create a certain persona. Non-threatening, a little feminine maybe, with expressive sweeping gestures and exaggerated flamboyance. Apparently, the illusion was so finely done that people forgot he was not actually a full sized man, even while they were looking at him.

But, shifting the blame, Jaskier thought most of the issue was that he tended to surround himself with Witchers. Witchers, as a general rule were ridiculously, gigantically, proportioned all over, and their great strength and rippling biceps made them that much more likely to just pick Jaskier up whenever they wanted and move him around as they pleased like he weighed nothing. 

Like now. 

Jaskier sighed and let his head rest against Eskel’s shoulder, ignoring the throb at the back of his skull that meant he most likely had a serious head injury. He hated those. He was fairly sure it was Eskel, because he was the one that usually carried Jaskier like this. This, meaning like some sort of distressed damsel. One arm under his knees, the other behind his back, keeping the smaller man against his chest. 

It was actually pretty nice, when Jaskier was conscious enough to be aware of it. Thinking on it, he had been in this position a lot. More than was probably usual for a bard. A tall, perfectly normal sized bard. But most bards didn’t go around with Witchers he supposed, and Jaskier was naturally a bit more close to danger for that proclivity.

He felt Eskel shift, tightening his grip and hitching Jaskier up slightly without breaking his stride.

“Stay awake.” The Witcher commanded softly and Jaskier hummed his agreement

Geralt hadn’t been happy the first time he saw Eskel carrying Jaskier like this, the time Jaskier twisted up his ankle in a gopher hole. Eskel has been using a technique that apparently was called a bridal carry. At first Jaskier thought perhaps his own particular Witcher had been jealous, but it had turned out the Geralt was more concerned about the practicality of the hold. He had taken the bard, as if he were a sack of potatoes and slung him over his shoulder, one arm pinning the back oh his thigh, hand going around the bard’s dangling arm, leaving his other hand free to wield a sword. 

Practical perhaps, but not as comfortable. His diaphragm felt crunched, and certain parts of his anatomy were being squashed mercilessly. When he had complained Geralt used his free sword arm to swat his ass. 

Geralt generally preferred that hold, or carting Jaskier around by the scruff of the neck like a kitten, which was injurious both to his clothing and his dignity. He honestly wasn’t sure which hold was preferable.

Jaskier made an effort to corral his thoughts, trying to remember the events that led to Eskel carting him through the wilderness like some sort of swooning maiden. If it had ben Geralt or Lambert he would assume monsters, but Eskel didn’t usually let him join hunts. A brawl perhaps, except for the location. Thinking made Jaskier’s skull hurt too much. He felt like it was important to remember, but it was no use. The effort was tiring, and he felt heavy, wrung out. His head fell back, lolling about in time to the Witcher’s long strides. Faintly, he heard Eskel curse. His thoughts meandered again.

Usually, if a cursing Witcher was manhandling him it was Lambert, with an impressive outpouring of obscenities. The hotheaded hunter seemed to take personal offense at having to help Jaskier, and showed no finesse. Jaskier might find himself slung over both shoulders, like a deer carcass, or shoved under one arm like a particularly large and burdensomely oversized package. On one memorable occasion, Jaskier had been dragged backwards through a bramble by one ankle, which at the time seemed preferable to being eaten by the griffin that was chasing them.

Lambert, for all his bluster, had a soft spot for Jaskier, and the bard wasn’t above exploiting it. The first time he had traveled with the youngest Witcher he had been unprepared for such an opportunity, with fine new boots made for court life, not hiking for hours upon hours. His feet were blistered and bleeding by the third day, obvious to Witcher senses even when he tried to hide it.

Lambert had simply scowled, and having no horse for the bard to ride had stripped off his swords, turned his back, commanding to Jaskier to get on. Jaskier had gladly clambered up, wrapping his legs around his companion’s waist, arms around his neck. Lambert had reached back, securing him is place, and told him not to get used it.

From that moment on, anytime Jaskier tired of walking, he would simply favor one leg, stop frequently to adjust his boot, or let out little discontented sighs until Lambert rolled his eyes and presented his back.

The first time Geralt saw that particular hold, Jaskier was sure the older Witcher was going to die of apoplexy on the spot. Lambert had even begun to offer to cart Jaskier about in such a fashion because he knew how much it vexed Geralt, and Lambert took every opportunity to vex Geralt.

Eskel had simply laughed, and complimented Jaskier on his new steed, even if it were an ass instead of a horse.

Eskel. There was something about that. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut in concentration, trying to remember what. A bolt of lightning shot through his brain.

Oh. Yes. Eskel was carrying him, and he was hurt.

With a struggle Jaskier rolled his head up, lifting one arm to curl around the Witcher’s neck to help stabilize his position.

“You need to stay awake” Eskel admonished quietly. “We can’t stop yet. You need to stay awake a little longer”

“Sorry.” Jaskier blinked his eyes open tiredly. He was hurt yes, but he was also safe.

And there would be time enough to feel slighted about being carted around like a doll later.


End file.
